Queen of Spades, Jack of Diamonds
by Dreamers Count to Infinity
Summary: The entire state of politics has gone to ruin, and the citizens of two kingdoms go to tragic extents for the sake of peace and survival. A little boy sees only the beginnings of it when his brother is torn from him in these silent wars, and when he grows up, all he wants is to make it all worth something. Gradual Fruk. Rating subject to change. Slow, if existent updates. Minor OCs.
1. Chapter 1

**Queen of Spades, Jack of Diamonds**

It had been a very long time since the press went out of business. There was always something to write about – the stories never ended. And it's not to say they're struggling now. Goodness, no. Every publishing firm between the continents is just reeling, there's never _not _something to babble about. It's because of the Transfers.

The Transfers have been going on for many years now. Perhaps it would have been shocking to know that people still cared about them after so long, but the Transfers are quite something different. Usually news goes stale within days, and the newspapers have to find another little something to entertain the masses with, but the Transfers are just the package when it comes to what people call 'interesting'.

They started when a treaty was signed between the English and the Japanese kingdoms. Hardly anyone could even recall the title – any one of the English, that is. The document was originally written in Japanese, and because the general idea was so simple, people hardly thought it was necessary to publish a translation. And thus, it was widely regarded as 'that treaty that started the Transfers'.

In all honesty, who could even say who thought up the idea? Maybe the English, maybe the Japanese. Maybe the Brazilians, who honestly had absolutely nothing to do with the situation. After all, half of the people in that conference hall were translators, who may have had to pass through two or three languages to get a message through to both sides. Nobody knew what anybody was saying.

So perhaps that's it. Perhaps it was just a big mix up. Maybe my brother was sent away to some foreign country with no knowledge of the language nor the culture because of a tragic game of political and lingual telephone.

Pardon me, I'm not getting to the point.

The Transfers are regarding to the forced transition of political, royal, economic – you name it – faces and figures between the two kingdoms, the British and the Japanese. They're sent there for a variety of reasons depending on their status and their influence. They might be there to help out with a pollution problem, or get the new-found clock industry on its feet. They stay there until they die – or, if they're lucky, until they're expelled. It's all really quite vague.

My brother, Allistor, was chosen to sail in a big ship across the sea and to live with the Japanese. Why? Because he's brilliant. Yes, yes, I realize, he surely doesn't look it – nor smell it – but he is, truly. Ever since he was little, he's been formulating battle strategies that would topple gods, right there in his little mind.

He used to tell me, even before I was able to quite understand, how he planned to change the kingdom of the English for the better, how he'd one day stand atop of the world and call it his prize. And how he would care for it like a father would.

Yes, he drank, he chewed, he spat, but he was a proper genius nonetheless. He'd invented the worlds of tools and toys alike. He lounged in a proper counsel chair, among proper people, with his muddy boots on the proper table, and he'd tell _them_ how to rule. And he was always right.

But he was never a king. He never would be, but the funny thing was, he never wanted to be. Because although he was a genius, he was not perfect. He could hold all the worries of a thousand lifetimes in one hand easily, but in the other, he would struggle to wrap his fingers around all that was his grudge against the king: his father.

My name is Arthur Kirkland – Prince, Arthur Kirkland. My father, the king, Edward Kirkland, is a mighty man, and a good king as well, but he is not a father. He raised the kingdom, but could not raise a child. He taught a land to breed crop and wealth, but he could not teach such fortune to his eldest son. He was not not given the opportunity to teach it his youngest, me, as Allistor, his first born, took over such a task when he deemed his father unworthy of it. But King Edward did not protest. The king returned to country, Allistor returned to his wayward son.

My father is a good man. Like I said – and ask anyone who saw the time of his rule before what I witnessed – he raised the both the land and the people, and he did so with much care, and much success. He's won the hearts of all who toil his land and bake his bread.

These bonds, between the thrown and the common-folk, have been tried, however, ever since the Transfers. The poor say he should not make their sons and fathers go away. The royals say he should not force strange people into their homes, where they are expected to host them for life. I realize the significance and the burden of those who have had to go and who have had to arrive, but yet I still say the king should not have very nearly pushed his son out the door.

I was seven. He, nearly nineteen.

"You mind yourself, Arthur," was what Allistor told me when he boarded the ship, his eyes glassy, though they had remained dry when our mother passed away. "They'll tell you to keep your feet on the ground, so do me a favor and keep your head in the clouds, yes? Just to spite them?" He shook my shoulder and held his mouth tight, frowning as he did when he concentrated.

I didn't know what to say. My lips fumbled for a moment to think of words to say, but no words quite enough came to mind. I settled for silence, and I met his shiny gaze, nodding and nodding until the call came.

"Anchors away!" called a sailor, and suddenly I was terrified. I reached to grab onto his coat, to revolt against this torturous nightmare in an attempt to keep him with me. The boat began to move steadily away, and my reach soon failed me.

"Allistor, no!" I shrieked. He stretched his hand out from where he leaned against the wooden plank rail, and he grabbed onto my hand for just a moment more.

"Be safe, Arthur! Always be safe!" he cried, and the ship's speed increased, and my brother's safe grip was lost. I nearly fell from the deck in my attempt to regain it. I nearly leaped out of my shoes, and perhaps I would have, if guards hadn't grabbed hold of me before I left the ground. They released me minutes later when I'd stopped my howling, and my screaming, and my struggling as I wished nothing more than to worm myself out of their grips. But they restrained me like a promise, and I had little choice but to watch his ship sail away down the path to the unknown.

Too soon, he was merely a shadow, and then but a speck. Then, I was ridding a carriage home. King Edward did not come to see his son off.

The last time I saw my dear brother was eleven years ago. I can't quite remember what his voice sounded like, or how he smiled, but I would sacrifice all such remaining traces of him if only to know he was alive.

I once had much faith. In all honesty, for a time, I figured that his habits and overall attitude would get him expelled from the kingdom, and that they would send him packing, and I'd see him again given just a few days. But a few days passed. Then another few days. And another. Eleven years worth of 'just a few days'.

There were days that I wondered what it must have felt like to have him there. My father, I saw only at the table and at the thrown. My mother, I saw only in the tomb.

The closest I had to parents after Allistor vanished were the servants who roamed the castle, but I was but one of their many chores; I was a bed to make, a figure to dress, a mouth to feed. I was not a person, I was not a young boy who sought a warm embrace. Such a quality was not princely, and therefore _I_ could not even _think_ to act such a way. Or so thought the maids.

I once arose from my bed of silk and feathers and was dressed for morning meal, and adjourned to the dining hall to taste a heavenly egg. It was fluffy and so full of flavor, spiced to perfection, and even the whites – my least favorite part – were cooked to delicacy. The tall tray set before me, though stacked with familiar muffins and rolls, were sweeter and moister than ever before.

I raised my eyebrows and licked my lips as I found myself impressed with even my least favorite of foods. My sorrow, which had smashed my appetite in its dreadful fingers, deserted me, I ate to my full for the first time in years. Even a dish-collecter must have noticed how much more I ate than usual.

"Are you feeling alright this morning, Your Highness?" he asked me, concerned in the butler's distant way, as he collected my plate.

"Have we a new chef?" I inquired, batting my mouth clean of jam.

"Indeed, Your Highness. Is his work to your liking?" he asked, piling my cup into his tray.

"Yes, send my compliments. Where is he from?" I questioned, placing my dirtied cloth back on the table.

"He is from here," the butler informed me. "He journeyed once to the French kingdom with family several years ago for his father's skill in agriculture. He was taught their ways of cooking there, and he only recently returned to England. He was discovered quickly."

"That was French food?" I demanded, faintly horrified. The English and French kingdoms once fought in grave wars, though their purpose was all but unknown to me. Even still, the idea of having enjoyed the food of a formal enemy disturbed me greatly.

"Your Highness, do not fret. The food he prepared for you this morning was of English origin. He only interpreted French styles into the preparation. However, if this should bother you, I shall-"

"No," I interrupted him, holding up a hand. "He will stay. Send my compliments." I knew I would not survive the toll my conscience would take should I send a man away from a place where he wished to be. I had seen far too much of that.

"What of his name?" I asked the servant.

"He is Francis Bonnefoy."

"Sounds French," I replied, my lips turning as if a terrible taste had touched my tongue.

"He was raised there, Your Highness. If he had any name before, only his father might have known it. But even should his father have taught him his English name, he might have forgotten it – or discarded it. Such a title would not sit well with the French kingdom, far worse than a French name would sit here."

I nodded and stood from my chair, making my way out the door. I walked slowly through the next corridor, with no reason for any more haste. I pondered about simple things, ridiculous things, and found myself emerging out from a glass door into the courtyard.

An unfamiliar face was cutting off an awkward stem of rosemary.

"The fine is four hundred-fifty shillings for cutting a royal plant without the proper authority," I called to the man.

"Indeed," the man grunted, continuing to trim the bush, "and if I should see one with no such authority committing such a crime, I shall inform you immediately."

"Excuse me?" I demanded. Apart from his impudent tone, his words seemed tuned by a string I did not recognize.

The man stood and turned toward me. The amusement in his blue eyes both stalled and fueled my growing frustration. He gave a deep bow and rose again, stepping toward me.

"It is good to see my favorite prince in person. I am Francis Bonnefoy, chef of the castle." he introduced himself. He took my hand, and leaned forward to kiss it, and I recoiled it the moment he drew away.

Although the action may have been custom, the idea of a man of his nature making any sort of contact with me seemed... slightly revolting.

"Now, what English prince sends his compliments to a French chef for his food? Only a very kind one, Your Highness." he murmured.

"You're not French," I spat, though I didn't even know quite why. A rhythm in his voice very much inclined me to despise the man.

"No? Then why resent me so?" he chuckled. "I am but a loyal English servant, isn't that right?"

"English perhaps, but your loyalty is a laugh that can't yet be trusted." I scorned. I turned away and began marching back inside. Behind me, he only gave another cackle of laughter.

"Your king has honored me to make your meals, Your Highness, I believe he trusts me quite enough!" And I slammed the glass door again.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Good to see a reader! Looks like this will be the last update this story will see for a while. My apologies for the upcoming lack of work on this story._

There was, though I regret to admit it, quite a period of time between my first meeting with the chef and the gathering of officials, during which I purposely avoided Francis, the man who made my delicious meals. This time period I remember only as an embarrassment, really. It was so childish, looking back on it, but it seemed only right to dodge any sort of contact or communication with him, simply because he, to put it frankly, made me appear to be stupid.

I was nineteen at the time of the royal meeting. I suppose that would have made him twenty-five. Francis did not attend, of course – he was but a chef, hardly a royal official. He must have been told the news, however, because afterward, I received my most favorite meal and no shortage of sweets.

"Gentlemen." King Edward nodded to those seated about the table. "I have some rather distressing information to share with you this evening, to which I have no reassurance to offer you. I shall, to the best of my ability, display the news to you in the same way I received it: stone-cold facts."

The men dressed in fine silk and polished jewels sat quietly, anticipating the grave words that would leave their king. I wondered only vaguely – all news around the kingdom at such a time was all negative, but only rarely did it ever affect my existence.

"We have received frustrated word from the Japanese kingdom concerning ships of requested people having never arrived at their destinations. However, in honor of our treaty," he could hardly pronounce its actual name, "we have done well to see these ships make sail. It would seem that a respectable number of ships never reached their final destination."

As the king went silent, the men murmured amongst themselves.

"Since when?" I heard myself asking. King Edward frowned toward me, as if surprised I still had a voice at all.

"Since the signing of the treaty. Once in a while, a ship is simply blotted off the map." he sighed.

"Pirates," I muttered to myself.

"We can't be too hasty with out assumptions, Prince Arthur." he reminded me, and I met his wise gaze with a frown.

"We've received every cargo ship sent from Japan, haven't we? You can't believe that the Japanese are better sea-fairers than we?" I demanded, far too boldly.

"And would you believe them to be better at dealing with _vermin_ than we?" the king boomed, rising from his chair of gold. "Mind your place, Arthur!"

I fell back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling both cast aside and humiliated for attempting to be anything but.

The remainder of the meeting dragged on, people posing some truly ridiculous ideas to explain the phenomenon. One man, for instance, proposed that the people sent off were actually lookalikes sent in their place, and when the captains found out, the pushed their passengers overboard and, out of shame of their sin, abandoned the life of the noble man and sailed of a man with no duty and no prospects.

Even that received a better reaction than my single-worded mutter.

As the murmurings and suggestions trailed on, their flow gradually becoming quieter and scarcer, I found myself asking another question.

"Did you ask them if they received Allistor?" I questioned, my voice soft but very solemn indeed. The king looked at me with that disapproving gaze he always used to look at me, as if I was fit for nothing more pleasant.

"I did not." he told me.

"Why didn't you?" I inquired, my gaze fixed on the table, glaring at the marks in its surface. And I waited, but the mighty king did not respond. I raised my glare to him.

"Why didn't you?" I growled, my voice growing stronger. Yet he did not respond. He only stared at me, his eyes growing distant and vague, and I felt the sudden urge to grab such a vacant gaze and demand its attention.

"Why didn't you?!" I roared, standing from my chair and shoving it aside as I stomped over to the man in glorious robes. "Your son! Your first born son! Your heir! Why did you not mention him? Why did you not ask of his whereabouts, why did you not demand proof of life?! Why do you sit idly by? Why did you stay far away, never in sight, when they took your son away?!" I screamed at him, but never did he reply, or even turn his head.

He stared ahead, his back having slumped as he seemed lost within his mind, and I was rendered useless to regain his consciousness. Surrounding me were the men who had sat around the table making preposterous shots to the dark and still earning this vacant man's appreciation – the very man whose appreciation I had killed for. They earned it with absurdity.

My anger flared toward them as well as they grabbed hold of me, and I wrestled against them. With an arm loose of hold, I swung a fist and the man who held the other. He nearly released his grip, and I may have been able to flee had another not gotten a fast hold round my neck.

Struggling against his arm only stopped my breath. I clawed at his skin and kicked him from below, even tried to bite him, but I was quickly overpowered by the added grip of the other lords and knights.

One grabbed for something of heavy metal – I know not what – and clobbered me across the head. The word then went very, very dark.

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I awoke in a dark and damp place that I did not know – not from this angle, at least. But when I overcame the spinning image of the world and saw the bars implanted in the stone ground before me, I knew exactly where I was.

I mentioned before that I received my most favorite meal and no shortage of sweets – that I did. A lady brought it down the stairs, little clicks in her step, and she opened the door and smiled as she knelt before me.

"The chef said it would be a pity to have such a meal go to waste, despite the... situation, Your Highness." she told me kindly, placing the tray in front of me. My feet were shackled and chained to a heavy stone, but my hands were still quite usable. I picked up a roll of bread, and looked at it with the ghost of a smile. After a moment, such any emotion as happiness fled me.

"What, precisely, _is_ the situation?" I asked her. She then looked somewhat troubled.

"I'm afraid I know little of it – not even His Majesty the King is sure how to go about your punishment, Your Highness. I've been told that you should be kept here until a decision is made."

With that, I did smile, and shook my head a bit. I chuckled quietly, "Then I'll be stuck here for the rest of my days,"

"Why do you say that, Your Highness?" she asked with a frown of confusion. I looked to her wondering eyes, wonder in if I should tell her of the news the meeting brought. No doubt there was not one soul in the palace who had no relation to any who had been taken victim by the Transfers. I knew it would only come as a great sorrow to such an innocent spirit to hear that he whom she knew may not still be alive. Thus, I concluded to keep vague.

"The king has acquired some new worries. My freedom surely won't be among his top priorities."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Your Highness. You are his son, after all." she replied, smiling again. Oh, and how I came so close to just telling her, telling her all the truths in the world. That the Transfers were poison, how her precious king was a failure of a father, exactly why she should expect to feed me meals in a cell till the day the first of the two of us is dead and rotten. But no. I settled to glare into her happy brown eyes, bringing a quick end to the reign of her joy.

"I'd best be going, Your Highness. Good evening," she stumbled a bit to say, giving a quick curtsey before retreating to proper civilization above.

And thus, I ate alone, and I lay on my bed of hay, wishing to hear the murmurs of dusting butlers, or stifled giggles of maids in the hall, or any sort of sign of nearby life. As I gazed at my clear plate hosting a silver fork as it sat on the stone floor, even the company of the intolerable man who had prepared the meal would have been preferable to the absolute silence of a prison's coming dark.

_A/N: Thanks for reading another chapter! As always, I most definitely appreciate any acknowledgment to the story that you may see fit._


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